Lest We Forget
by CriminalMind
Summary: In honour of Remembrance Day. John McRae was an army doctor. John Watson was too. John McRae a poet, John Watson a writer/blogger. Watson reflects on the war and on the immortal words of a man very similar to himself.


A/N: In honour of Remembrance Day. After all, the Veteran's Week commercial told me to remember whatever way I wanted to. ) Not sure about how people in England celebrate on Remembrance Day, but I assume it's similar to how we do it in Canada. Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Watson, they belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss and Seven Moffat. I also Don't own In Flanders Fields, that brilliant poem belongs to John McRae. Many thanks to all the brave people who fought and are fighting for a better tomorrow.

Summary: John McRae was an army doctor. John Watson was too. John McRae a poet, John Watson a writer/blogger. Watson reflects on the war and on the immortal words of a man very similar to himself.

**Lest We Forget**

John woke early that morning, not sure whether he should put on his uniform (of course he'd kept it) and go out to one of the many ceremonies being held later that day. For the moment, having time before those ceremonies were to begin, he decided he would sit down at the computer and pay his respects via blog.

After a few minutes of staring at the screen, John realized he didn't know what to say. How would he describe the things he'd seen: the blood, the bombs, the fear? John could still remember the names of every man he'd treated, and especially of those he'd been unable to save, but he couldn't figure out how to tell the world their stories. Every case he'd had with Sherlock Holmes he'd been able to describe in vivid detail, and his memories of the war were no less vivid, so why couldn't he write them down the way he did his everyday cases?

Watson's phone screen lit up, shaking him out of his memories. Speaking of the devil, the display read Sherlock Holmes. Why the man couldn't have taken the ten steps out of his bedroom to say whatever this was, John couldn't say. He also couldn't help thinking that Sherlock was becoming more and more like Mycroft in that respect. But he opened the text anyway.

_In Flanders Fields_

_ - SH_

Was that all? Well, obviously there was a reason for his flatmate texting him this, so John opened a new tab and searched the poem up.

**In Flanders fields, the poppies blow,**

**Between the crosses row on row, that mark our place.**

**And in the sky the larks, still bravely singing, fly**

**Scarce heard amid the guns below.**

As he read, John Watson could hear the sounds of gunshots as they sliced through the air, felt the ground vibrate as he rushed towards a wounded man lying limp on the ground. The adrenaline rushed through his veins as if he was really there. His left arm began to shake, and he couldn't stand for the pain that now enveloped his leg. He was taken back to the day he had been shot, after months in a battlefield, and before he knew it, tears were streaming down his face.

**We are the dead.**

**Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.**

**Loved and were loved, and now we lie in Flanders fields.**

**Take up our quarrel with the foe.**

**To you from failing hands we throw the torch**

**Be yours to hold it high,**

**If ye break faith with us who die we shall not sleep,**

**Though poppies grow in Flanders Fields.**

** - John McRae **

Once the poem was finished, John scrolled down to the biography of the author. " John McRae was a Canadian army doctor who served in the Canadian Medical Corps. During the First World War, McRae served in Flanders Fields, where many soldiers were killed and their bodies never identified, leaving them among the anonymous masses of fallen men. When he returned home, McRae wrote this poem in remembrance of those brave soldiers."

John had, of course, known of John McRae, but sitting at his computer he realized something. There were many similarities between them. Both army doctors, both writers, they would both have seen similar things and both would have been deeply affected by the wars in which they had taken part. And at that moment, John realized why he couldn't find the right words to commemorate his fallen soldiers and express his gratefulness for what they were sacrificing and trying to achieve. The words had already been written for him.

* * *

><p>Later that day, when Sherlock finally deigned to move from the dark depths of his room and attempt some human contact, John was making tea, a new blog post pulled up on his laptop screen titled "Lest We Forget". It contained the entirety of <strong>In Flanders Fields<strong>, with thanks to John McRae and well-wishes for all those currently fighting.

Looking up from the paper in his hands, John took a long look at his flatmate. "Thank you," he said with a small smile. As he stood, Sherlock noticed that John was in his uniform. "I'm going out," he stated flatly. Sherlock nodded. As John turned to leave, he continued, "Well, are you going to sit around and watch it on telly, or are you coming with me?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate, sure that his cases could wait for a few hours. He just grabbed his jacket and swept out the door behind his friend.

A/N: There we go. Don't remember everything about John McRae, and I didn't bother to research it (so bad!) so I just put in what I remembered. Hope it's okay :) Please R&R!


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